


Stronger than a Wolf

by nimic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, i dont know how this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimic/pseuds/nimic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles <i>really</i> needs to get better locks for his window. <br/>Or the AU where Derek avoids Stiles as much as possible instead of constantly shoving him up walls and demanding information, which results in more dangerous situations than anyone would like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger than a Wolf

Stiles has only met Derek a handful of times. The first is when he and Scott stumble onto this lovely asshole’s private property. But from the moment Derek is Scott’s alpha and things start to get serious, Mr. Sourface McLonewolf seemingly goes out of his way to never see Stiles again. Sure, they cross paths here and then, only to have Derek disappear as soon as he’d arrived. Yeah, Stiles helps the pack by doing all the research they need, but it’s only ever Derek coming to him for information one or two times out of fifty. Had they even reached fifty? Nah. Anyways, it’s only been Derek twice. Of course Stiles remembers the exact number of times he’s met Derek. When you can count the total on two hands, of course you’d remember.

One of those research sessions was the last time they’d met: for some information on a hunter group passing through town. They needed to know if these guys were a threat, or if Argent would be able to handle them, convince them to move on. Derek had left just as Stiles was getting to the good stuff, muttering a quick “don’t let them get too close to you” as he exited through the recently dubbed “Werewolf Window”.

As soon as he’s done checking up on the group, Stiles sends everyone a text which goes something like “no dirt. seem too clean. stay on guard.” because he knows that the quicker they get the information, the safer they’ll be, but Stiles is only human and god damn does he need some sleep. They can pester him about the details tomorrow. Or later today. Losing track of time is bad. When you stop being able to tell Monday from Tuesday from Wednesday. When was the last time he’d slept well holy shit.

He is going to bed _right_ now. It’s decided.

Stiles gets up and his plans for immediate rest are foiled by him noticing that he smells like shit because he hasn’t showered all day. He quietly makes his way to the bathroom with a change of clothes in tow, takes the quickest shower ever, so it’s less time separating him and sleep, and is out like a light when he gets into bed.

Out like a light and completely vulnerable, god damn it.

> 

 “I need better locks for my window.” He mumbles as he wakes up in… something that looks like an abandoned basement. Ew, it smells like… like rotten wood and dead rodents, that’s what it smells like. The light above him flickers and Stiles hopes there aren’t any dead rats around him when he looks down.

“Must be my lucky day.”

He tries to get up, and fails miraculously. He doesn’t feel anything when he falls down, but he _does_ hear the rattling of chains.

Stiles looks up and, what do you know, he’s chained to the fucking wall and there are already too many scratches around his wrists to have been here for only the couple of minutes he thought he’d been asleep. They must have shot him full of tranquilizer or something because he can barely coordinate his movements and the pain he should be feeling is nowhere to be found.

“Already awake, are we?” Stiles can’t tell where the voice is, or who it belongs to, because suddenly he can feel even _less_ and his vision is going dark.

Another shot of tranquilizer.

< 

Stiles wakes up to what he assumes is someone ripping out his intestines from his side. He lets out a hiss and jerks away from the pain he can suddenly _feel_.

“Ah good, you’re awake. You’ve been out for a whole day.” The person in front of him smirks. Or rather, they sound like they’re smirking? Who the fuck knows. Not Stiles. Haha, definitely not Stiles. Whoever it is standing too far away for the little bit of light to reach them. Stiles blinks a couple of times, trying to get the sleep, or rather _unconsciousness_ , out of his eyes. He doesn’t feel rested for having been out all day.

“Great, I’ve been meaning to catch up on some sleep.” Stiles rolls his eyes, because he’s ‘140lbs of pale skin and brittle bones’ and sarcasm is his only defense. “Really like what you’ve done with the place. Very homey. What air freshener do you use? Rodent à la Dead?”

Clearly, his captor is amused, because they step close enough to him to make their face visible. Sike. Whoever this asshole is, they’re wearing a mask and large clothes. There aren’t any details Stiles can get from him, her, whatever. There isn’t even a specific scent. Everything smells old and dead. And burnt. Stiles realizes there’s a fire burning a bit over a meter to his right.

Okay, so _poker_. As in _fire_ poker.

Explains why his side is in so much pain.

“You were a very nice catch, you know? It’s not often we get the pleasure of welcoming a _human_ guest. This should be over quickly. Weakest links usually take a while to crack, but you’re _human_. I’d say you’ve got a week, tops, before you give up or die.” The lightly muffled voice speaks.

Stiles snorts. “I take offense. I am _not_ a weak link. Those idiots would be useless without me.”

“That works too.” Stiles swears he can hear the smirk widening on that evil person’s face. Evil evil evil. Definitely evil. Completely evil. Fucking asshole. Stiles goes on insulting his captor because it’s a good distraction from the pain. “Regardless of how much you think you help, being human means you’re _weak_. So you’re going to talk. Where are they?”

Its Stiles’ turn to lean forward and smirk. “Weak? You got the wrong guy buddy. I’ve been through my share of hell too you know. You won’t even get half a name from me.”

The pain in his side intensifies, and Stiles grunts in discomfort. He gets punched in the face, and Stiles takes the chance to spit blood on his captor, smirk back in place. That’ll get some smell on ‘im. If he gets enough blood on this person, the smell will probably linger long enough for the pack to find him when assface goes shopping for some air freshener.

Because the pack’s going to come get him. “They’ll be here soon. You’re fine, you can handle this. Maybe there’s not enough blood on this lovely piece of shit. Spit on him again. Perfect.” The thoughts keep him going as the torture gets worse. They repeat themselves for… Stiles doesn’t know how much time has passed since he was brought here, but he’s sure his dad is looking for him now too.

This fucker’s gonna’ pay.

Stiles makes it a point to laugh after he screams, because it keeps his spirits up and probably scares his captor. He always blacks out with a smirk, just to piss this loser off.

> 

The next time they meet, Stiles is chained to the wall; cuts, burns, and bruises visible – oh god – everywhere. There are bags under his eyes and the blood coming from his nose is slowly drying. His wrists are bruised and scraped from the constant friction with the metal holding him up. There isn’t much light in the room, but the dimming fire off to Stile’s right and the dying light bulb above him give off enough light to see… see the scissors, the poker, the multitude of objects he didn’t think to find there because they’re freaking _torture_ instruments and the house looked perfectly pleasant, though forgotten in some ignored corner of the world for what seemed like a long enough time. Chris– the _hunters_ looked pleasant. Even to the wolves who were wary of them. This was fucked up. Oh god this was so fucked up.

Derek’s foot kicks a broken bottle forwards and the sound startles him, because he didn’t realized he’d been advancing. He hopes it’s just a trick, an illusion. He hopes that isn’t Stiles, hopes Stiles is hidden somewhere else and this is some other unfortunate soul, hopes that the injuries aren’t as bad as they seem, though they’re probably worse. Derek looks back to him, and Stiles raises his head slowly, like there’s no more strength in him.

_Probably because there isn’t._

Derek swallows and takes a step towards the body that’s started trembling, then stops.

Stiles laughs. He laughs this horrible broken thing and his voice is hoarse and scratchy because he probably hasn’t been given enough water, or maybe he’d yelled too much. Likely both. The laugh dies down and Stiles sighs.

“You’re not going to get me to talk like this you know.” Stiles’ head rolls to the side, resting on one of his shoulders, looking down his nose at Derek. “I don’t know what you slipped me, but it won’t work. I know it’s a hallucination. It’s a hallucination, isn’t it? Of course it is. Piece of shit.”

Stiles coughs, and blood comes up. He gathers it in his mouth before spitting it to the ground. He stares at the new bright red spots on the floor beside him for a second, then wipes his mouth on his arm, switching his head to the cleaner shoulder. He sighs.

“God, I’m such an idiot. I don’t even know the guy and I’ve fallen for him.” Stiles whispers. “Just hearing people talk about him, hearing about the expressions he pulls, hearing about the things he does for his pack.” Stiles’ head drops. “I’m hopeless.”

Derek takes a step towards him again.

“You’re not getting anything. I won’t betray them. I won’t betray him.” Stiles laughs louder. He laughs until the blood makes it sound more like a gurgle than a laugh. He spits it towards Derek. “I’m stronger than you thought, aren’t I? They’re stronger too. Much stronger. They’ll find you, it won’t be long now.”

Stiles chuckles, because he’s falling asleep again and can’t laugh, but the smirk stays there.

It’s been weeks since Derek has seen Stiles. He thought keeping a distance would save Stiles from… from _this_. After the close call once before, Derek had made sure to keep contact with Stiles to a bare minimum, because the less the pack hung out with him, the easier it was to think of him as someone completely un-related. Someone who had nothing to do with the wolves. Someone hunters and the supernatural could ignore. Someone who was _safe_.

Initially, Derek had simply disliked Stiles. The kid was too happy, too hyper, too eager to help these people he barely knew, but knew well enough. Somewhere within the first two weeks, Derek had started thinking of Stiles as pack. More than pack. But that was beside the point.

The point was he needed to protect the energetic little shit, and here he was; bleeding out in and abandoned house a mile or two out of town. The windows were neatly boarded up and the house had been completely empty, looking strangely clean despite the layers of dust that coated nearly everything, save for a few mattresses and the weapons used on Stiles.

It had been weeks, and the group of hunters had decided to go to Chris for help with tracking down Beacon Hills’ wolf pack. Argent had explained the situation to them, who were not pleased, to say the least. They left quicker than they’d appeared, not even leaving a _hint_ as to Stiles’ whereabouts.

They _had_ , however, left the lingering smell of blood in the Argent house. _Stiles’_ blood. And that was enough to track him down. It’d barely taken an hour to find him. An hour after weeks. Weeks of worrying, of lost sleep, of looking absolutely everywhere, trying everything. Weeks of _nightmares_.

Derek kneels next to Stiles, trying to evaluate the extent of his injuries; if the wrong bones are broken, they’ll have to bring in Deaton before moving him. Broken ribs, femur, and tibia. His spine is fine, but his shoulder isn’t in its socket anymore. Derek’s brows furrow further. Why hadn’t he just given the hunters the information they wanted? Didn’t he trust the pack to take care of themselves? True, they probably wouldn’t have let him go anyways, but it would have saved him so much pain. Unless– unless they had new techniques, something that would hide their presence, scent and sound especially. Something that would mean that the pack was in danger.

But kidnappers don’t give away that kind of information. It’s the sort of thing that would give a captive motivation for keeping their mouth shut. But if – _if_ – they’d had the means to successfully pull off an ambush.

A sad smile twitched at Derek’s lips. Stiles may not be a werewolf, but he was stronger than any would ever be, and smarter to boot. They were so, so lucky to have him, and Derek was gonna’ make sure that they took better care of him from now on. He wasn’t gonna’ let this kid out of his sight ever again.


End file.
